Petroselinum
by totallystellar
Summary: AU PreHBP Harry's surging powers leave him sick and drained, and also with a side effect while sick, he's lost his ability to speak anything but Parseltongue. Voldemort attempts to use the delirious, unwitting Harry to overthrow the world.
1. An Emerging Affliction

**Title:** Petroselinum

**Genre:** Action/Adventure/Drama

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Post-OotP. Harry's surging powers leave him sick and drained, and also with a side effect; while sick, he's lost his ability to speak anything but Parseltongue. The Dursleys throw him out, afraid, and Voldemort uses the unwitting, delirious, and incredibly ill Harry to overthrow the world...

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter.

**Author's Note:** Hopefully, this will be at least partially original. I'm trying! I appreciate any and all reviews you have to offer me, but now, please read and enjoy. :-)

**Petroselinum **

**Chapter One: An Emerging Affliction **

_"I know I have the ability to do so much more than just stand in front of the camera the rest of my life." - Jennie Garth_

"Ugh…" Harry groaned, rolling over in his bed. The metal springs in the mattress creaked as he moved, and one or two dug into his back no matter how he lay. He tentatively opened his eyes and groaned again as the light assaulted his dilated pupils. Hedwig gave a concerned hoot from where she sat perched on the dresser, and Harry sent a forced smile that looked more like a grimace her way.

"It's okay girl… I'm… I think I'm okay…" He muttered, but his teeth were clenched. He'd been feeling under the weather for more than a week now, and Tylenol and aspirin weren't helping. A constant headache beat at his skull, and whenever his scar would sear with pain, it seemed to double.

"POTTER!" A voice screeched from the bottom of the stairs. "It's 10:30 in the morning! You've slept in too late!"

Harry winced as his Aunt Petunia's piercing voice cut into his already aching head like a drill, and sat up. He regretted the fast motion instantly as his head began to spin. He fell back down onto the bed and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply before slowly sitting upright. Sure, his head was still aching, but it wasn't as bad as his sudden start before.

Blindly, still squinting in the morning sun, his hand shuffled over the table beside the bed for the familiar bent metal frame of his glasses. The found them and impatiently shoved them up the bridge of his nose just as his Aunt gave another yell. He stood up a bit shakily and headed down the stairs.

As he skidded into the kitchen, his aunt was there waiting for him, an impatient look on her pinched features.

"Finally!" She said, eyeing him with distaste. "And what's wrong with you today, you look all flushed."

Harry merely shrugged. Petunia gave him a suspicious look.

"Well, when you talk to those friends of yours, make sure you tell them it had nothing to do with us, you hear?"

Harry sighed. His head was pounding, his eyes were feeling a bit gooey and dazzled, and his neck had crick in it. Deciding he didn't exactly have the strength to fight this morning, he just nodded and shrugged again. He pulled his neck to one side and listened as he felt the satisfying crack. Aunt Petunia made a face.

"Disgusting habit," She commented with a look of revulsion.

Harry smirked humorlessly.

"Well, I'm not _forcing _you," Aunt Petunia continued, but paused here, and her look said that he would do it whether or not she gave him the choice. "But I would like you to do these chores while I'm gone today. Dudley and Vernon have already left… We're going to the International Cheese Fair today and Vernon and Dudders needed to save us some good seats. They throw mozzarella into the crowd, you know."

Harry fought down the urge to roll his eyes, both because it would enrage his aunt into unnecessary anger and because his head was pounding rather badly, and that action would probably just increase the ache. Aunt Petunia shoved a piece of paper into his hands, and he glanced down at it. Neatly written in smooth black ink was a list of things he was expected to complete by the end of the day.

_1. Dust the house_

_2. Sweep the kitchen_

_3. Weed the garden_

_4. Wash the windows_

5. _Clean the cupboards…_

Harry looked in disbelief at the list in his hands, then at the blonde woman before him. She had her back turned to him, and she was stuffing something in her purse, and from here the gray streaks in her hair were more visible. Harry cleared his throat loudly.

"'Scuse me, Aunt Petunia," He said with false sweetness, ignoring the throbbing in his forehead. "But, there seems to be a problem with this list."

His aunt turned and snatched the list back, scanning it twice. She scowled.

"Look, boy, I don't know what you're playing at, but I need to go. There is nothing wrong with this list, and I expect these done." She said sourly.

"Yes, well, sorry, but I _do_ see something wrong." Harry responded lightly, almost flippantly.

"Well?" Petunia demanded. "What's your complaint this time, boy?"

"How about the fact that you want me to work like a slave for you!" Harry cried, raising his voice. _'Well, there goes not yelling...'_

Petunia stared at him and then paled, grasping the chair for support.

"What?" Harry challenged, staring back at his aunt and trying harder to block out the horrible migraine. "What? Shocked that I don't want to be your personal chore boy? After what they said to you at the station you _still _want me to do all this?"

Petunia looked terrified now, and though her mind was telling her to run, her feet were glued to the floor. Blankly she pulled the chair out and sat down hard, looking as if she was making sure that if she fainted, she would at least be already sitting down. Harry frowned, his anger seeping out of him, and he looked down at his hands. He gasped.

They were glowing.

With wide eyes he held his hands out in front of him, watching as they let off a strange golden light that traveled up his arms and down his body. Horrified, he shook his hands, trying to scatter the radiance. His skin was tingling and his headache was returning twice-fold, making his eyesight blurry despite the fact that he was wearing his glasses. Still moving backwards and desperately trying to remove the light from his skin, his back suddenly hit the wall. He spun and bolted for the stairs, hurtling up them two at a time and rushing into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, holding up his shining appendages.

The glow was gone.

He blinked.

_What?_

Harry turned on the water and splashed his face repeatedly before glancing at his reflection again. His hair was just as messy as it had always been, probably more so, and his face was gaunt and pale. He was thinner than he'd been the summer before, but, Harry had mused with a humorless half-smile, then Sirius had been alive.

Harry's pupils were large and dark, and the famous emerald color he'd inherited from his mother was just a thin strip of iris around the dark circle. There were purple crescents under his eyes again. _But they hadn't ever left, had they…_

Harry splashed his face with water again, and pulled open the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. Carefully he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, shaking out two pills and tossing them into his mouth. Cupping his hands he washed them down with a mouthful of tap water.

As he walked dizzily out of the bathroom, suddenly stiff and exhausted, he had a fleeting thought that maybe he should owl Dumbledore. But the very name still made him white-hot with anger inside, and he was feeling so heavy... The pain wasn't just in his head now; it was in his chest as well. Tired beyond belief, he fell with a thud onto his bed, and was out like a light before he'd even closed his eyes.

---------------

When Severus Snape entered the Headmaster's office, he looked around in shock. The delicate silver instruments and trinkets that Dumbledore had so prized were gone, and the spindly tables were bare and few in number now. The large chair behind Dumbledore's desk was facing the opposite direction, and Snape was vaguely concerned that his former teacher hadn't seen or acknowledged him entering.

"Ahem."

The chair spun around, and there was the aged wizard, sitting in the leather seat and looking entirely au courant. He smiled and placed his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers.

"Why, hello Severus. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked pleasantly.

"What happened to your office, Headmaster?" Snape said, ignoring the preamble.

"I'm afraid young Mr. Potter was a bit carried away at the end of last term…"

"I do hope you're not being serious, Headmaster." The Potions Master said disdainfully, swooping forward and sitting himself down in the chair in front of the desk. "You actually let Potter throw a temper tantrum and destroy your belongings? You really must be going senile – if I were you he would have been expelled in a heartbeat."

"Yes, well, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "I'm sure we all know that if you were me, you would do many things differently."

Snape frowned.

"What was it you needed to tell me, Severus?" Dumbledore said, moving away from the more personal, though not necessarily dangerous, waters.

"Yes," Snape began, voice crisp and businesslike. "The Dark Lord is more desperate for revenge than ever now. At the meetings he's been ruthless, Headmaster, and he's killed at least three Death Eaters because of their incompetence. McNair is dead, as well as Karkaroff. I'm not sure about who the third was. The Dark Lord is determined to kill Mr. Potter."

"This is not unexpected." Dumbledore sighed. "I fear that the boy's life is in more danger than it ever has been."

"When is his life _not_ in danger?" Snape snorted.

Dumbledore frowned, brow furrowed.

"Yes…" He murmured sadly.

"Also," Snape continued, not feeling as much sympathy for the Boy-Who-Lived as he probably should have. "It is rumored amongst the Dark Lord's ranks that he knows the boy's location – or at least, he knows that Potter is somewhere in Surrey, but he can't pinpoint it. Bastard doesn't want to destroy an entire city to get to Potter, though why not, I don't know.

"I'm also not sure how long my cover will last. Voldemort has been suspicious of me lately. I need to reaffirm my allegiance to him with more of the Order's information, so I'll be visiting the werewolf soon to see what is and is not expendable..." He finished.

Dumbledore merely nodded. Snape frowned again.

"Albus." He said forcefully, causing Dumbledore to look up. "I'm sure that the Golden Boy is perfectly fine in his relative's house. You should stop worrying and concentrate on the more urgent matters at hand. You need sleep, I can see it."

Dumbledore let out a soft chuckle.

"You're not one to talk, my boy." He said in a soft voice, waving his wand once. A glamour charm was removed from Snape's face, revealing dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Snape glared daggers, pulling out his own wand and recasting the spell. The two sat in silence for a moment.

"Well," Dumbledore said abruptly. He stood, his creaky old frame still imposing even in his old age. "I trust that I shall hear from you as soon as more is uncovered?"

Snape stood as well.

"Yes." He said curtly, and swept from the room.

---------------

**Author's Note:** Next chapter coming very soon. :-)

Please review.


	2. Speaking In Tongues

**Author's Note:** No reviews yet… but then again I just posted a few hours ago, so what do you expect. Lol!

**Petroselinum**

**Chapter Two: Speaking In Tongues**

_"Never tell a young person that anything cannot be done. God may have been waiting centuries for someone ignorant enough of the impossible to do that very thing." – John Andrew Holmes_

The first thing Harry saw when he woke up was two large amber eyes staring into his. He yelped and scrambled backwards, hitting his head on the wall and eliciting a startled shriek from the bird and a yell of pain from himself. Hedwig flapped up off of her perch on the side of the mattress, giving one last shriek as she settled on the dresser across the room, miffed.

Harry, meanwhile, was breathing a sigh of relief. He pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them, hands forward and carelessly dangling.

"Geez, Hedwig," He sighed, feeling more than hearing the loud pulse in his neck and wrists. "You scared me half to death."

Hedwig fluffed her feathers once and hooted dolefully.

Harry rubbed his head. A large lump was forming there, adding more pain, which, he realized, was still there from yesterday. He gently eased his head back and rested it on the wall, shutting his eyes against the light coming in through the window. For some reason, all the light was really bothering him…

He opened his eyes when he felt a reassuring weight settle on his knee and a gentle nip on his finger. He smiled at his pet, and absently stroked her white feathers as he stared at the wall of his room, not really thinking about anything.

"Sirius might've had a remedy or something for this," He mumbled to Hedwig, who cocked her head to the side and gazed at her master. "He'd've… he'd've run out of headache relief potion, I bet," He said, giving a low chuckle. "And probably given me something for hangovers."

The snowy owl nibbled on his finger as he spoke.

"You know… I bet he woulda had quite a bit of that, 'eh, Hedwig?"

Hedwig hooted softly, shuffling on his knobby knee and nuzzling her feathered crest on his hand. Harry barked out a laugh that was strangely reminiscent of Sirius's.

Harry's stomach was growling, feeling very, very empty. He paid it no mind, making a mental note to run downstairs and grab some toast later.

An ache was thudding relentlessly in his temples now, and a strange squeezing feeling was enveloping his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to ease the pain. Tilting his head back again, he exhaled. It puffed out in a gold cloud that hovered in the air above him. Harry blinked sleepily.

_Wait…_

_What!_

Harry jumped off the bed, moving away from the golden mist so fast that Hedwig fell from her perch, accidentally scraping his skin through his tattered, hand-me-down cotton pajama bottoms. She screeched indignantly, flapping and sending feathers everywhere, but Harry wasn't paying attention to her. He knelt on the floor beside the bed, staring at the breath he'd blown out. It was scattering now, the little golden speckles of air sifting and dying out.

Experimentally, he pursed his lips and blew. A rush of cool golden air hung in his room like frosted breath on a cold night, rustling a lock of his unruly black hair. Harry stared, emerald eyes wide. Trembling, he reached out and skimmed the gold patch of air with his fingertips.

A strange tingling sensation overtook his fingers as soon as they touched. Harry withdrew sharply, inspecting them. Visibly, nothing was wrong, but the feeling remained, slowly dwindling as the puff of breath melted into the rest of the air. Harry stared at his fingers, flexing them, and suddenly felt his head begin to spin. He stumbled to his feet, making his way toward his door on wobbly legs. He practically fell into the door, grasping the knob with limp fingers and twisting it harshly. It didn't move.

Harry squinted down at the tarnished bronze knob, shaking it violently and pulling on it. It wouldn't give. The boy leaned on the door, trying to focus his eyes.

"Uncle Vernon!" Harry yelled through the wood. "Come on, Uncle Vernon, unlock the door!"

He heard startled, frightened gasps and squeaks on the other side, and he grit his teeth.

"Uncle Vernon!" He yelled again, uncomfortably aware of how his breath was coming out in golden mists as he spoke. "I swear, you let me out now or –"

"Stop!" Cried the terrified voice of his aunt. Harry paused, trying to hear through the ringing in his ears.

"D-Don't y-you yell at us in tha-that horrible… WIZARD VOICE!" Uncle Vernon stuttered, sounding both enraged and scared stiff.

"What!" Harry said incredulously. "What the hell do you mean, Vernon? I'm speaking plain English, you fat oaf!"

"DON'T YOU THREATEN MY FAMILY, BOY! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING, BUT KEEP AWAY!"

"Uncle Ver – Damn, this is stupid!" Harry growled. He couldn't even stand properly now; he was leaning heavily on his door, and his words were slurring. His vision, already affected by the bright light, was fuzzy though he was wearing his glasses, and his head was pounding. It felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing tight over Harry's chest, and Harry was taking ragged breaths.

"Petunia, get Dudley and go!" He heard Uncle Vernon say to the other two members of the Dursley family. He could tell that they complied because Dudley's thunderous footfalls shook the floor of Harry's room.

"Boy," Vernon was close to the door now, and he was speaking in a low, dangerous voice. "I don't know what you've been doing in there, sleeping for half a week, but you better be _damn_ glad that we made you write out those notes for your freaky friends beforehand. They would have come and got you, and we would've been blamed for your… bizarre sickness!"

"You're crazy, Uncle Vernon. How could I sleep a week? I - "

"I don't know what you think you're up to, you freak, but you're not hurting my family!"

The doorknob turned in Harry's loose grasp of it, and the door opened. Startled, the raven-haired youth fell with a _thud _onto the floor, right at his uncle's feet. His head hit the hardwood, and he grimaced as he hit the exact spot he'd banged that morning.

"Ouch…" He moaned. Vernon gasped and went white before turning magnificent plum.

"What… what did you just say to me!" He demanded furiously.

"I didn't say anything to you, I just said 'ouch'," Harry responded through gritted teeth.

Vernon gave another livid gasp, and nudged Harry roughly with his shoe.

"Get up. You're leaving."

"What!" Harry exclaimed, squinting with watery, pained eyes up at his uncle. He still hadn't moved from the floor, and the stress on his chest was increasing. "You can't do that, you know you can't!"

Uncle Vernon seemed to get – if that was possible – redder. His face twisted and he grabbed Harry by the collar, carrying the sixteen-year-old out at arms length, apparently paranoid to have much physical contact with him. He thundered down the steps, which wheezed in sympathy with Harry. The teen was struggling to catch his breath and to fight back, but was no match for the obese man.

When Vernon stepped into the garage and out of the main house with Harry in tow, Harry thought he had died. Apparently, the garage didn't officially count as the home of Number Four, Privet Drive. _'Another mistake, Dumbledore...'_

It wasn't as horrible as the pain he'd experience at the Ministry, trapped as a prisoner in his own mind as Voldemort took control of him, but it was close. Harry fell to his knees on the steps, clutching his stomach with one arm and holding his head with the other. He bit his lip so as not to cry out, and thick trail of blood trickled down his chin. Vernon stared at him, unsure what to do. The last thing Harry thought before he fell unconscious was, _'Sirius…'_

Vernon watched the boy practically convulse with pain on the steps of his garage. He hovered above him, hesitant. Deciding that it was probably because that Potter kid had done something magical and it was getting punished, he just watched. For freaks, they gave damn good punishments.

He practically sighed with relief when the nuisance passed out.

He dragged the unconscious Potter over to the car and pushed him into the back seat. Sure, he had a large, manly physique, but that didn't mean he could haul heavy things like teenage boys everywhere he pleased. He snorted disdainfully as he got into the front seat (the car dipped as he sat) and turned the ignition. With the remote control he opened the garage door and backed the car out, and it mechanically closed it behind him. He made sure not to look around too suspiciously. Potter had hinted that his freaky gang of perverted "humans" were watching Privet Drive. He breathed a sigh of relief when nothing stopped him from exiting.

He drove for an hour, not quite sure where he was going, but knowing what he was looking for. Suddenly, as he was reaching the outskirts of nowhere, he gave a satisfied smiled. _Here we go… perfect._

He pulled over on the side of a small, forsaken gravel road, stepping over the large, fuzzy weeds that were growing wildly in between the rocks. On either side of the unused path were fields of tall, overgrown grasses. They sloped down from the road at a steep incline, and here and there were muddy patches from recent rain. Vernon reached down and touched one long blade lightly, letting loose a hiss as the sharp edge slit his chubby finger in a harsh, paper-cut sort of wound. He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked while moving back to the car, opening the back door. He pulled out his unconscious nephew, trying as much as he could not to touch the limp form. _Don't touch disgusting things_, motto twenty-seven of the Dursley Morals Handbook, Vernon remembered fondly. He and Dudley studied every night, before Bible studies, of course. Well, sometimes. If Dudder-butters was tired they skipped Bible studies.

Vernon held Harry out in front of him, and unceremoniously dropped him on the gravel. Then, with a forceful nudge, Harry fell down the hill, rolling and picking up speed with momentum. Vernon watched the skinny form of his unnatural nephew slow to a stop, and he gave a strangled sigh of relief. When the boy woke up, he'd be dead, and gone forever. The world would be a better place, and everything would be well again, Vernon was sure of it.

How wrong he was...

---------------

**Author's Note:** Okay! Two chapters for the opening:-P Well, hopefully I'll get a chapter done a week, because I'll write on Saturdays and Sundays. Please review!


	3. In Which Potter is Missing

**Review Responses:**

**Eumageuma:** Wow, my first reviewer, and nothing but positive feedback. Thank you so much:-)

**T-chan:** I love reviewers like you. Positive but constructive. :-) I went back and fixed some little things that you picked up on that I didn't in my quick edit. To answer you… Vernon told Harry that he'd been sleeping half a week because he really had been, and I fixed the other thing.

**Petroselinum**

**Chapter Three: In Which Potter is Missing**

_"We may pretend that we're basically moral people who make mistakes, but the whole of history proves otherwise." - Terry Hands_

Vernon stepped into his home with a happy smile on his face, feeling much as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He peeked into the kitchen for a celebratory snack when he was practically assaulted by his hysterical wife, who gave him a kiss on the cheek before withdrawing, much relieved.

"Vernon!" Petunia gasped. Her face was white and she was wringing her hands, and a few hairs of her impeccably neat hairdo had fallen out of place. "The freak escaped. I was so scared – thought you were dead or something awful. What if all that unnaturalness finally went to his head and drove him crazy?"

Vernon shushed her, giving her a gentle pat on the back.

"Shh, darling, shh, it's okay. I've taken care of it."

"He was speaking in tongues, Vernon, tongues!" Petunia was saying, but paused. "What do you mean, 'taken care of it'?"

Vernon gave her a proud smile.

"I got rid of the boy, of course."

"Got – got rid of the boy?"

"Why, yes! Now our troubles are finally over… Been wanting to do that for years." Vernon stood, striding over to the refrigerator and snatching some ham, cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise from inside of it.

"Wait, Vernon," Petunia said slowly as she watched him grab a loaf of wheat. "You… you got rid of the boy?" She repeated.

"Yes indeedy-do, my dear." He said jovially. He liberally slathered some mayonnaise on both sides of the bread.

"You… took him out of the… the house…"

Vernon was prying apart the ham slices, which were cut a bit too thin and ripping apart. Finally, he shrugged his beefy shoulders and slapped the whole thing on top of the gooey white sauce.

"Vernon," Petunia said, a bit louder. "Did you remember why we're keeping him?"

Vernon, who was trying to figure out whether or not to put lettuce before cheese, said absently,

"Of course, dear."

"Vernon, you're not listening to me!" Petunia whined, sounding much like Dudley winding up for a temper tantrum. "We can't take the boy out of the house, his teachers and his friends will come after us!"

Vernon froze. A bit of saliva was strung between his top and bottom teeth as his mouth opened, ready to bite down the oozing tower of a sandwich.

"What?"

---------------

The Great Hall in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was decorated a bit plainly over the summer holidays, it must be said. In contrast to the lively school year banners and house colors, as well as the different seasonal decorations, the décor in the eating-place was simplistic. Banners with the school crest hung and rippled with invisible breeze to match the weather on the enchanted ceiling for the day, and the tables were bare and neat, lacking dinner placings and centerpieces in house colors.

Nonetheless, Hogwarts was uncommonly full this summer. The Order of the Phoenix frequently rendezvoused here when not meeting at Grimmauld Place, and currently half the staff and a few aurors were gathered, about to disperse on missions of various importance. The Head table was bare, and the absence of the Headmaster was painfully obvious. He was rumored to have locked himself up in his office, working on extremely important paperwork and battle strategies for the upcoming and inevitable war – or, as Severus Snape had pointed out before grouchily leaving the congregation, feeling sorry for a certain student. In payback, the Transfiguration Professor had tripped him rather obviously as he swept from the room. He'd limped out with as much dignity as he could muster and the people who had witnessed the scene were given something to laugh about in a time when good cheer was often absent.

As the laughter died down, the individual conversations resumed. Many were solemn and serious, or businesslike.

"Look at this, Tonks," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, leaning down to hand his companion (whose hair was now quite offensive in a tall, spiky hairdo that was a glaring shade of neon orange) the latest letter from Harry. She took it with interest, reading the slightly sloppy masculine handwriting.

_To the Order, and All Whom This May Concern –_

_I'm perfectly fine at the Dursleys. They've been decent. Need some time alone. Next letter will come soon._

– _Harry James Potter_

She gave a sad smile.

"Looks fine to me," Tonks said. "Poor kid must be really down."

"No, look at it closely. It's old, the ink is slightly faded. This wasn't written as soon as we're led to think it was." He said in his deep, slow voice.

Tonks flushed.

"Oh…"

Kingsley frowned at the young auror.

"Come on, Tonks," He said, though patiently. "You should be able to pick up on this stuff by now. Well, we need to check this out…"

"Check what out, Kingsley?" Said a new voice. Both aurors turned to see Minerva McGonagall stride toward them.

"Ah, Minerva," He greeted deeply, extending his hand. She shook it and gave him a smile. "Marvelous stunt you pulled."

"Oh, yes, yes," She replied modestly, a faint blush coloring her face. "It was no matter. But what was it I overheard you saying to Nymphadora?"

"Call me Tonks, please, Professor." Tonks said, a twinge of annoyance in her voice.

"We were just looking over Potter's latest letter to the Order, Minerva." Shacklebolt said. He tugged the note from Tonks's hands and held it out for McGonagall, who picked up her spectacles from where they hung on her neck from a gold chain and set them on her nose. She adjusted them once and read over the letter, the corners of her mouth turning downwards.

"Well," She said suddenly. She pulled off her glasses and they fell onto her chest. She brandished the parchment as she spoke. "It seems that we might need to go check on Mr. Potter after all."

---------------

Where it was busy in Hogwarts, it was quite the opposite in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. The place was bare and bodiless. Almost.

Remus Lupin sat alone at the kitchen table. Before him were boxes and boxes covered with dust and filled with even dustier belongings. Things that hadn't needed to be touched for years now needed to be sorted and distributed as requested. Why? Because it said so in the will.

Remus had no intention of sharing the will with Harry, of course. Harry would know when he was ready… Remus just didn't think Harry could handle the proceedings at the moment. He had thought of owling the boy to ask him, but decided against it. Harry needed some time alone, to think things through.

Remus sighed, pulling a hand through his salt and pepper hair. When he brought his hand down, he saw strands of it between his fingers, and groaned inwardly. It was bad enough being prematurely gray, but if he started going bald…

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed. It rang deep and low, echoing through the eerily empty house. Remus counted the gonging bellow of the clock, imagining the tarnished gold pendulum swinging slowly back and forth.

"Seven, eight, nine, ten…" Remus breathed as the clock's noise ended. "Ten o'clock…"

He couldn't see the sky from here in the kitchen due to the fact that it was a basement sort of room, but he could imagine the black night sky speckled with pale stars. _Maybe the Dog Star was up there…_ but Remus digressed, not feeling up to getting so philosophical tonight. His last remaining best friend was gone. No need to read deeper.

He looked down and sighed a world-weary sigh at the paper in his hands. It was one of the only things that looked to have at least been touched lately. It was horrible to think that people needed to keep up to date wills because they could perish at any minute. But who was he to talk? He'd just revised his own the previous evening.

He picked up a pen and was about to make a note about giving the portrait of Mrs. Black, should it ever come off of the wall, to Narcissa Malfoy (so that it could haunt her), when the fireplace flared green. The werewolf looked up, surprised.

A tall, sallow-faced man had stepped from the fireplace, and was imperially brushing soot off of his black robes. His greasy black hair fell down in front of face as he did so, and he straightened he cast a condescending sneer toward the only current resident of Number 12.

"Lupin." He stated with a curt nod of his head.

"Severus." Remus responded, blinking in surprise. "Erm… Do take a seat, and excuse the mess…"

Snape's lip curled as he glanced at Sirius' possessions, and he took a seat in a chair opposite his fellow Order member.

"I need to see your files of collected information against the Dark Lord. To regain a position within his inner ranks I need to reassert my loyalties and bring him a specifically useful report."

Remus nodded grimly. With a wave of his wand, a large file appeared before him, and he was about to begin sifting through the magical contents when a red and gold feather floated down in front of him out of nowhere. He paused, and it lit aflame in a brilliant lick of fire, starting at the stem of the feather and working its way toward the tip. In the small pile of cinders the Phoenix feather left behind, an imaginary finger smudged away ash and wrote a hasty, succinct message.

_Potter is gone from Privet Drive._

Remus stared at the words with wide eyes even as a silent wind captured the ash and swept it from the table.

"Well?" Snape snapped impatiently. "What did it say, man? Stop gawking like the village idiot and speak!"

"Harry… is gone. He's not at Privet Drive. He could be anywhere." Remus said numbly. He turned to face his former schoolmate. "How's that for a useful report?"

---------------

**Author's Note:** Don't worry about the note being short, everyone. More will be explained to Remus and Snape (and thus, the people reading), but at the moment it was just a hastily given message until more could be said. Presumably, they're off searching for our favorite hero. :-)

Please review!


	4. Cowardly Dursleys Head for the Hills

**Review Responses:**

**bri:** Normally my chapters are about 8 pages long, but I'll try to make them longer. You'll be happy; this one's about 11 pages.

**T-Chan:** I agree with you; the changes do fix the story and it's much better now. I love the fact that you liked the way I'm portraying everything.

**LadyBlackIce01:** Thanks for reviewing.

**No one wants to be around me:** Thanks:-) That was a very sweet compliment.

**Dah:** Oh my god, Dah, I haven't talked to you in ages! I miss you! Thanks so much for your compliments, I hope I see you soon!

**MaxFic:** Thanks for checking this out. :-) I didn't think you would! What do you mean by "give more information?" Also, see my answer to bri please.

**Petroselinum**

**Chapter Four: Cowardly Dursleys Head for the Hills**

_"It is better that ten guilty persons escape than one innocent suffer." - Sir William Blackstone_

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd suspect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, so the fact that they'd packed up as many of their belongings as would fit in their suitcases and luggage bags was really very unusual. If anyone had looked into the window earlier that day, they would have seen a fairly frantic Mrs. Petunia Dursley deciding which of her cooking pots she thought more necessary to bring, which set of prized window-peeking binoculars were sharper for better perception, and which pairs of a perfectly normal size seven women's loafers (the positively normal women's shoe) to bring.

Her husband, one Mr. Vernon Dursley, had also joined in the packing. He packed as much as he could take, even surreptitiously sneaking into the backyard to retrieve a few manly yard tools from the shed. They were quite used, though he'd never laid a hand on them, for he'd always set his nephew to the task of gardening. Still, a manly tool is a manly tool, and does do wonders for one's manly reputation.

By the time their large son had awoken in the late hours of the afternoon, the married couple had scoured their house one last time and had stowed the suitcases in the spotless garage.

"What… what do you mean, Mummy?" Dudley asked, his pudgy face contorted into a confused frown. He looked back and forth between his parents. The two were sitting on the couch together, trying to break the news to their son, who was settled in the matching love seat. There was no room left for even Petunia to squeeze in next to the boy, and she was as skinny as a rail. Vernon caught Petunia's eye, and they both sighed. This would be hard. Poor Diddy-Dumpkins.

"Well, Diddy, darling…" Petunia began slowly, reaching over and placing a comforting hand on Dudley's flabby forearm.

"Oh, wait a second, Mum." Dudley interrupted knowingly. "If you're giving me 'The Talk', I know all about that stuff."

"What, Dudley – oh!" Petunia turned red, shooting a scared look at her husband. "Dudley, sweetie…"

Vernon cleared his throat, muttering something to his wife about dealing with it later. Petunia composed herself, turning back to the subject at hand.

"I'm sorry, Dudley, but we're going to have to move."

Dudley frowned, still not understanding.

"Son, she means we're leaving Privet Drive."

Dudley tilted his head to the side. His double chins wiggled a bit.

"We've packed all of our things and they're ready to be put in the car right now, we're never coming back here."

Dudley's face held a look of intense concentration. He pressed his lips together and squinted at his parents.

"We're leaving so that the nasty –" Petunia lowered her voice to a frightened whisper for the next word, "wizards, you know, your cousin's friends, don't come after us."

Dudley tilted his head the other way. He looked rather like an ugly, confused pug with about twice as many chins.

"Oh, come on!" Vernon cried, exasperated. He heaved his beefy body up from the sofa and stomped through the house to the garage, where he proceeded to shove the luggage into the trunk. Petunia, hearing the noise, quickly rose from her seat and scurried out of the living room, followed by her confused son, who waddled behind her like an overweight duckling.

Dudley wedged himself into the backseat and Petunia briskly settled herself shotgun while they waited for the man of the house to finish. With a grunt, Vernon hauled the last bag into the trunk and slammed it shut, stalking to the driver's seat and plunking himself down.

"I don't understand!" Dudley whined as his father turned the ignition. Vernon let out a growl and Petunia turned around in her seat, patting her son on his leg. This action resulted in the nauseating sight of wobbling ripples of fat, but Petunia dutifully smiled a motherly smile and said reassuringly,

"It's okay, Duddy, darling. Your father knows that he's doing."

---------------

"Ugh…"

Harry Potter groaned, rolling over on muddy ground. He hissed with pain as the sharp grass slit his skin anew with millions of paper-cuts. Smears of blood that had dripped from the small incisions and droplets of splattered mud were smeared in paint-brushed strokes, dried and crumbling off his pallid skin. They were reopened with his movements and the grass slashed across his face and bare arms mercilessly, even cutting into his stomach where his oversized shirt twisted and revealed an unhealthily thin abdomen.

The first thing Harry realized was that he was hungry. Very, very hungry. He hadn't remembered feeling so hungry in ages, not since he was a young boy locked in a cupboard decorated with gossamer spider webs. His stomach gave an angry roar of protest when he had nothing to appease it, and he winced as his whole body seemed to rumble.

The second thing he realized was that he wasn't in number four, Privet Drive. He wasn't even in a house. He was outside. In the mud. Alone.

Panic set in, and Harry's eyes snapped open. Everything around him was blurred from his stigmatism, but he could see – not that it was as much comfort as it should have been. His glasses were gone, and being even somewhat sightless is more than disconcerting. Sharp grasses rose on either side of him, and he was lying in gritty dirt with an almost marsh-like quality. He shot upwards, only to fall back again and splatter himself with the disgusting substance when his body protested. The elephant was back on his chest, and he was sore everywhere. He feebly raised his arms up and saw they were bruised and scratched, and figured that his whole body must be the same. Questions ran through his brain and trampled all other thoughts, and he desperately tried to get up, horrified at the thought that he was lying out in the open, unready for attack. And his wand, – _'Where is it!'_

After a third attempt at rising, he turned on his side and leaned over, supporting himself weakly with one arm while trying in vain to hold the other up to cover his mouth. He coughed violently, spitting out a bloody mouthful of dirt and weeds. His arm buckled, and he collapsed on the ground again. A stick dug sharply into his spine. He shifted a bit; successfully dislodging the twig and feeling the razor grass poke sharply through his threadbare clothes.

Harry found himself breathing through his mouth, his throat painfully dry. His nose was clogged, stuffed with dried blood from where he'd apparently hit it on something and gotten a bloody nose. Relaxing his tense muscles a tad, Harry opened his eyes. His breath was still leaving him as thick golden vapor. He exhaled cogently and watched the breath twinkle as if it was polished metal crushed into powder and tossed above him. Air went in clear and came out flashy. Harry had a fleeting image of Professor Trelawney dressed in crisp business robes, walking into a pawn shop, and coming out dressed even stranger than normal in sequined gold hippie garb, complete with shimmering shawl.

Pushing away this strange and slightly disturbing thought, he cast his gaze to the dark sky. A migraine was attacking his skull again and the state of the weather seemed to reflect his mood. The clouds were gathered and the air was thick and heavy. A moist chill hung densely in the atmosphere, and the taste of oncoming rain was palpable. With glazed emerald eyes he scanned the sky, looking at the rippling layers of cloud, watching, intrigued, and noting how the clouds seemed to be layered, each stratum a different color. Purple, gray, black, blue, and all colors in between, and darkening every moment. They mingled and formed a bruised color wheel with foreboding secondary and primary hues. It had a vague sort of symbolism to Harry, but his head gave a forceful throb and he let go of his train of thought.

He turned his head to the side, wincing a bit. He squinted at the tall blades of grass, which rose quite a bit over his head. He supposed he was making an indent in whatever field or grassland he was in. Maybe a marsh? _'Whatever.'_

_'Now… to stand.'_ Harry thought. He rolled on to his stomach. Pushing himself up in a push-up as though he was in Gym again, he forced himself back until he was kneeling. Woozily, he almost fell but caught himself in time. He was out of breath just by those movements, but he sucked air in harshly against the pain on his chest, determined not to let it get to him. From his position on his knees he surveyed his surroundings, allowing himself a rest.

It was a vast field of grasses and rush, stretching on endlessly to a thin strip where marshy hues met stormy blues and the sky began. The long blades of grass reached as high as his waist, swishing and poking at his sore sides with their sharp points. The wind rushed through them, creating an ominous whistling sound, and they leaned and smacked onto him. He turned his aching head painfully, scanning the horizon for anything, anything at all. The mud was slowly swallowing his shins, covering his bony knees and coating his skin. Harry looked down, and in a corner of his mind noted with disgust that there were little worms and bugs crawling through the grime, scooting in and out through the brown stuff and creating tiny, molded chasms that instantly refilled themselves.

Grimacing, Harry pulled one leg out of the muck, which released it with a sound reminiscent of a vacuum seal, and then pulled out the other. He shifted position weakly, glad that no one was here to see him flounder like a fish out of water in the middle of soggy field. He leaned forwards against the pressure on his chest and squinted out in front of him. From what he could tell, the he plain began to ascend slowly before turning upwards in a steep slope. Atop the slope was a line of gray.

_'Maybe a road?' _Harry wondered. He found it harder and harder to keep track of his thoughts, and to stay up right. Gravity had rebounded on him tenfold and he wavered. The air was syrupy and filled with the suffocating stench of earth and precipitation, and crickets and insect songs hummed _a cappella_ in his ear along with his own heavy panting. The air around him was shuddering with his sparkling breath, and his drawn skin was beginning to glow. Harry's eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, despite the fact that this only worsened the deepening migraine.

A clap of thunder echoed once, and the bruised skies opened up. Rain began to fall in droplets, and then in spoons, and soon in sheets. The water cut into the already sodden soil, pushing it airborne in splashy waves of browned water. The grasses and plants were blown so low by the roaring wind that they were almost juxtaposition with the very ground they grew from, and the violence of nature was so sudden that every small creature huddled down in fright, though the more Gryffindor-ish bolted bravely for their homes.

"No!" Harry cried aloud. His voice was raspy and scratched, and he choked. Unable to stop, he fell into the mud. His elbows locked and saved him from landing head first into the ground, but the pain rocketed through them and they collapsed brokenly. The rain sizzled before it even hit Harry's glowing skin, transformed into mist just by being in proximity, but the boy didn't notice. His head was swimming, his mind was blank. He fought to hold his eyes open, but they were pulled shut as exhaustion and pain washed over him, in place of the rain that evaporated before it could do the same.

The last thing Harry saw before he fell into unconsciousness was the brilliant flash of gold lightening streak across the sky.

---------------

_Whack._

_Whack._

_Whack._

_Whack._

The windshield wipers swept back and forth rhythmically, sweeping the splattered rain from the glass an allowing a clear view of the water-pelted highway.

_Whack._

Cars zoomed down the lanes, headlights glaring through the sheets of rainwater and illuminating the way in front of them. Thunder clapped in the distance, and a bolt of gold lightening struck the earth much too close for comfort.

_Whack._

Vernon peered through the rain once the windshield wipers had done their job. His wife was sitting rigidly in the seat next to him, and their son was reclined on the entire back seat. Vernon glanced in his rearview mirror, then out again at the watered thoroughfare.

"Damn flash storms," He grumbled under his breath.

"Dad, can we turn on the radio?" Dudley asked.

"Not now, Dudley, Daddy is trying to concentrate." Vernon said gruffly.

"Mu-um!" Dudley whined. "Can I turn on the radio, pleeease?"

"Vernon, just let him listen to his music." Petunia hissed. Her husband scowled.

"Petunia, can you not see I'm trying to concentrate on the road?" He responded testily. The wipers gave another "whack" as they picked up speed with the rain, constantly clearing the view. The family fell into silence, listening to the rain beat on the car roof. Flashes of gold lightening lit the way like blinding strobe lights. They drove on through the downpour, until Vernon turned the wheel, making a right onto an exit and pulling up to an inn.

It was an old-looking place, though quite obviously new. It rose up two stories and spread outwards, and was built strangely with bricks and terra cotta. Vernon rushed his family inside, and they stood soaked at the gleaming red reception counter. The walls of the lobby were a dusty rose, and the floor was laid with dark auburn tiles. Brown leather sofas sat with masculinity in front of more feminine fabric drapes, and a wooden coffee table with a center of the same red that graced the reception counter filled up the space. Many people were gathered in the lobby, most standing or sitting on the offered seating, and all looking thoroughly rained on.

"May I help you, sir?" A pleasant looking young woman said, jerking the man from his inspection of the room. She was walking toward him, and tripped clumsily on the upturned edge of an area rug. Chagrinned, she brushed herself off, slightly miffed when Vernon didn't extend his hand to help her up in any attempt at manners.

"Ahem, yes," Vernon said, pushing his normally well-kempt but now fairly waterlogged coiffure off of his forehead. As he spoke she walked around the red counter, taking a seat behind the check-in register. She fell off the stool once, but quickly climbed back on. "My family and I need a room for the night."

The woman pushed her own strawberry-blonde bob behind her ears and smiled a strained smile.

"Well, I'm sorry, sir, but all our rooms are filled up. I won't turn you out but you'll have to stay with the rest of our guests stranded here until the storm ends."

Vernon slammed his fist on the counter, causing the receptionist to jump back in surprise. He leaned forward, beefy face purple.

"Now you listen here, girl," He hissed dangerously, piggy eyes narrowed. "My family needs a room and we need it now. We will not stand out here with these freaks while we wait for this damn storm to pass!"

The young woman crossed her arms over her chest and was looking down her nose at Vernon. Her blue eyes flashed.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, _sir_," She began, putting a mocking emphasis on "sir". "But none of these people here are wizards." She waved her hand at the men, women, and children gathered in the sitting area.

Petunia, Dudley, and Vernon all recoiled, and exchanged frightened looks. Dudley choked on some hot chocolate he'd snagged from a warm refreshment table.

Vernon turned his glare back to the young woman.

"What do you know about _them_," He whispered viciously. He paused here and read her nametag, which was pinned to her shirt at an angle. "Dora?"

"Dora" rolled her eyes.

"How else would I know?" She responded cryptically. She grimly eyed him once, and then looked over his wife and son. "And now, Dursley family, I think I might have a room for you. An _interrogation _room."

The rain-soaked loiterers in the lobby disappeared, and the cozy atomosphere of the inn went with them. The illusion gone now. All that was left was a smug Nymphadora Tonks tugging with satisfaction at her orange spikes, and the cold white walls of a generic government-type building.

"W-w-what?" Vernon sputtered, looking around wildly and holding out his arms to shield his family, who were cowering behind him. "You – you can't – I'll call the police! – I'll, I'll –" He grabbed his wife's hand and his wife grabbed his son's and he dragged them toward the way they'd come in, panicking.

But Remus Lupin and Alastor Moody were standing in front of the exit.

---------------

**Author's Note:** It's been a while since I wrote, but that was why I posted the third chapter so quickly. Please review! I hope it's getting better. :-)


	5. Interrogation

**Review Responses:**

**T-chan:** Thanks, and yes, the Dursleys are going to get hell from the Order. Tonks has always been one of my favorite minor characters – she's just so cool!

**LadyBlackIce01:** Voldemort will find Harry very soon – this chapter, in fact! ;-)

**Midnight Silver Shadow:** I'm trying to make this a good balance of the clichés we love (superpower Harry, of course) and originality.

**B.B.T.W.:** Yes, there will definitely be more hints into Harry's growing powers. ;-)

**I forgot…, SSC**, and **Drusilla:** Thanks for your reviews!

**Author's Note:** I believe I owe everyone an apology. Two weeks late! I could die. So embarrassing. Sorry for those of you who were waiting! High school (and parents) were on me and I barely had time to write!

**Petroselinum**

**Chapter Five: Interrogation**

_Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding. – Agnes Repplier _

"Okay, Mr. Dursley," Remus began with forced calm, but none could miss the threat in his tone. "You talk, and you talk now."

The room was large and institutional, with cement floors painted white walls. It was furnished only by a single table in the very center of the room. Gathered around the table were four chairs, three on one side and one on the other. One Mr. Vernon Dursley was currently shackled to the lone chair. Vernon looked around wildly, and thrashed against his bonds. His beefy face was a strange color, somewhere between puce and fuchsia, and his wrists were rubbed raw from his struggles against the chains. His petrified (both literally and figuratively) wife and son had been taken into a separate room for individual question, but Vernon Dursley was the main concern at the moment.

"I – I'm not telling you anything!" The muggle cried, a mixture of fear and defiance. Tonks narrowed her eyes from where she was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest.

"C'mon, Dursley. You don't think we're going to let you get off with just that, do you?"

"You can't prove anything!" He screeched desperately.

"_Mister_ Dursley." Remus cut in, sounding very Snape-ish. He was sitting across from the large man, elbows on the table, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody on his left. He scrubbed his face with his hands, rubbing his five o'clock shadow, and let loose an agitated, wolfish growl. "I feel it fair to warn you that the full moon is very close to beginning its cycle, and I'm not in my best temper. Maybe you could stop, and take a deep breath, and begin again."

Vernon looked shocked, and then he paled.

"So you're – you're a –"

"A werewolf, yes." Remus said wryly. Vernon gasped and tried to squirm away from the thin interrogator.

"You're – you're even more of a freak than I thought you were! You're disgusting, you're a freak, you're a – a monster!"

In a sudden outburst, Tonks pushed herself off the wall and stamped forward, pulling back her fist and punching Vernon right in the mouth. His head flew to the side and hit the back of the chair with a crack, and his eyes watered. He looked around disoriented for a moment before he finally realized what had happened. Tonks stood before him, breathing heavily and scowling.

Remus blinked. He looked taken aback, but then gave Tonks a half-smile.

"Um, thank you, but that was… that was quite unnecessary, Tonks."

"Nice right hook there, lassie," commented Mad-Eye gruffly.

Tonks blushed, chagrinned, and Vernon's formerly angry demeanor seemed to have multiplied tenfold. Already a large, painful looking bruise was purpling one side of his jaw. He let loose a roar.

"HOW DARE YOU LAY A HAND ON ME! IF YOU'RE DOING THE SAME TO PETUNIA AND DUDLEY I'LL HAVE THE LAW ON YOU, YOU –"

"That's enough, Dursley."

Startled, Vernon looked at the grizzled old man next to Remus.

"I've had enough of this nonsense. If we can't get you to talk the politically correct way, we'll just have to do it my way."

Before the terrified Vernon could do anything about it, Mad-Eye had stood and rummaged through his knapsack, withdrawing a small vile of completely clear liquid. He limped around the table, his wooden leg "thunk"-ing as he went, and he roughly grabbed Vernon's head, forcing open his mouth and pouring in the Veritaserum.

"Ha! Best idea you've had all day, Mad-Eye." Tonks approved heartily, taking a seat on Remus' right side.

"Okay," said Remus. "Let's begin. What is your name?" He said to the cuffed perpetrator.

"Vernon Francisco Dursley." Vernon answered, monotone.

"Francisco?" Said Tonks and Mad-Eye simultaneously. Rather unprofessionally, they exchanged an incredulous look and Tonks raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh while Remus looked on with a disapproving gaze not unlike that of a mother whose children were misbehaving. Tonks caught his eye and the corners of his mouth turned upward before he continued the questioning.

"What did you do to your nephew, Mr. Dursley?"

"I got rid of him."

There were three sharp inhalations of air, and Remus made sure his words were steady.

"What do you mean exactly, Mr. Dursley?"

"I put him in my car and dumped him in a field out of town."

"What!" Snarled Mad-Eye, standing abruptly. His chair scraped on the floor, and his colleagues were having similar reactions, but all eyes stayed on the drugged Vernon, who continued as though nothing had happened.

"Yeah. The freak was glowing and speaking in tongues. Nearly killed Dudley and Petunia! He'd eat nothing and sleep for days like a bum on the street, and then he'd come out jabbering different languages… the freak, he threatened my family! I finally had enough of it and I told him he had to leave.

"He didn't listen to me, though. That spoiled brat never did listen to any one, never had any good sense at all. None. Just like his good-for-nothing drunken parents. I had to drag the thing out of the house. He collapsed in pain when we got to the garage, screamed some wizard things and when he passed out, I put him in my car – my brand new car, which, by the way, he managed to scratch, probably out of spite even after everything we've done for him.

"I drove for about an hour or so and then pulled him out of the backseat. I pushed him down the hill and watched him roll, and then went home."

While a shocked Mad-Eye stood frozen, the duo beside him was another story.

By this time, Remus and Tonks were seething with anger. Remus, the elder of the two and with decidedly more self-discipline, was trying desperately to set a calm, collected image. However, he was failing miserably, overcome by both his horror at what had happened and could be happening to Harry during all this time, his incredible anger at the slanderous accusations against the Potters coming from this worthless shell of a man, not to mention his canine instincts. The latter of which, unfortunately for Vernon, were much more prominent than usual. He let out a horrifying snarl, was out of his seat and almost across the table by the time Tonks had wrapped her arms around his chest from behind and held him back.

"Uh!" Tonks grunted. She gave a straining tug and Remus fell backward, away from the still impassive Dursley. At the sudden movement, the always-clumsy Tonks stumbled backward, almost falling over if it hadn't been for Remus' quick reflexes. Remus cleared his throat.

"Yes, sorry for that… Sort of, um, lost control…" He apologized. He shot a glance toward Vernon, who was staring into space, apparently waiting more questions.

"Cheers," Tonks assured him, brushing herself off and taking her seat again. Mad-Eye looked on with disdain, his magical eye whirling in its socket.

"We've got a muggle loaded up on Veritaserum here." He said in his low, gravelly voice. "Are we going to get our answers or what?"

"Yes, yes," Remus said, sucking in a breath and sitting straight in his seat. "Mr. Dursley, what did you do after you… got rid of Harry?"

"I drove home and tried to make myself a sandwich, that's what! We were out of salami but it was okay. Until Petunia tells me about that threat the boy's teachers gave us, I'd forgotten all about it… So we (Dudley, Petunia and I) packed our things and put them in the car."

"What next, Mr. Dursley?" Prompted Remus.

"This bloody storm started. Thunder and lightening out of nowhere, really. We drove on and the highway started to get too flooded, so we pulled over to an inn for the night. People everywhere, we needed a room and when I demanded one, the receptionist gives me cheek. And no wonder, she was a witch. Then, you crazy freaks tied me up and gagged my family and put them in another room."

"So that's it?" Asked Mad-Eye.

"Yes," said Vernon. The Veritaserum was beginning to wear off, and he shook his head in a stupor. He seemed to suddenly realize where he was and he shot a scandalized look at the trio before him, clearly disgusted. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tonks waved her wand lazily, hexing him. Vernon opened and closed his mouth like a fish, forming words but never speaking them.

Remus sighed wearily and rubbed his temples. Tonks put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Right now the most important thing is to find Harry." Remus finally said.

"So what's the plan, Lupin?" Mad-Eye growled.

"Tonks and I will head out to find Harry. There aren't that many fields he could be talking about. You can interrogate Mrs. Dursley and Dudley Dursley, Alastor, and give us any information you find that could help us narrow down the search.

"Before we go, I need you to contact the Order, Tonks," He added to his orange-haired friend. She nodded grimly. "Maybe get Bill or Charlie Weasley out to help us, or Kingsley Shacklebolt."

With a quick nod that he had acknowledged and approved Remus' decisions, Alastor turned and clucked off to the seperate holding room where the other members of the Dursley family were currently being held. Tonks patted Remus on the shoulder once more and moved farther away from him to perform the spell that allowed Order members to contact each other.

And Remus put his head in his hands and hoped that wherever Harry was, he was okay.

---------------

The rainstorm was torrential.

At the same time that the Dursleys were packing and getting ready for a hasty retreat from wizarding folk, storm clouds were gathering. The atmosphere was black and purple, covered effectively by stormy clouds that spread across the sky, painting it with steely, metallic grays. Thunder boomed, followed almost instantly by golden, shimmering bolts of lightening. They lit the black background in a strobe-light fashion. The lightening raced down in jagged, slanted shafts of light that exploded into being, illuminating everything in gold and white in the blink of an eye before blackness overtook the world again.

Night had fallen and the sky was still open, letting loose its fury in sheets and gales, flooding low areas and destroying buildings. The wind roared and pushed the rain into stinging whirlpools that pounded the ground mercilessly, miniature nails drilling into the sopping mud. The foliage was drowning in dirty water, limp and bent as they were hit again and again by the thrusts of downpour.

The sodden marsh grasses were pressed deeper into the foul-smelling quagmire as a giant, serpentine form slithered along the ground, splashing a scooped, flattened grass pathway behind it. Its tail lashed out behind it, creating tidal waves of brown in its wake. Due to its dark green color, almost black, it blended into the watered down habitat with ease. Its smooth scales were pounded by water, cooling it most uncomfortably, but it steadily made its way across the field. Her large red tongue slipped from her mouth and tasted the droplets and the icy air, looking for scents in the storm.

"Ugh… Ooh…"

The faint groan of pain reached the serpent's ears, followed by a loud clap of thunder, and she lifted her sleek head from the ground. Raising half of her body into the air, she swayed like a snake charmer's pet, scanning through the area for the source of the noise. Slowly, she lowered again, moving forward with a swiftness shown only in her species. Taken off of her normal course, her tongue tasted the air furiously as she moved. A strangled cough sounded and she quickened her pace.

She came to a halt, and stared down at the choking boy. He was painfully thin, covered in mud and water. The rain pelted at his body and Nagini felt a small tinge of pity for the human before her. He was shivering, half-unconscious and nearly frozen. He was battered and bruised, and short, nonsensical mutterings came from his mouth.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. His pupils were dilated, and almost no brilliant verdigris could be seen. He stared up in horror at the half-Basilisk that towered in shadow above him, and then bent over coughing, coloring the mud invisibly with dark red blood.

"Help –" He gasped. Rain fell into his eyes and mouth, making him sputter and blink, but others froze into gold drops of crystal as his breath touched them. He achingly rolled onto his front, clutching his sides. "I – just help me –" A bolt of golden lightening pierced through the sky, and the rain picked up its pace, beating on the terrain.

Nagini's thin eyes widened. The boy… he could speak the Language? She slithered forward, and nudged the boy with her head. He shuddered, but didn't respond. He was unconscious.

Nagini's tongue flickered out and brushed his ashen cheek, tasting, sensing. He was familiar to her, and had a familiar taste. When had she seen him…? Part of him vaguely reminded her of her master, and it was this and this alone that compelled her to veer from her designated course and bring him with her. After a moment's indecision, she slipped forward, pulling her powerful tail around and lifting the boy with it. Holding him securely between the powerful muscles of her lower end, she resumed her journey. She faltered every now and then, her tail not able to help her keep balance and thus inhibiting her movement.

The snake stumbled along in an uncharacteristically inelegant manner, sloshing through the floodwater, and golden lightening striking much too closely for comfort. She finally halted in front of a towering building.

The structure was ominous and gloomy, dark and shrouded with neglect and haunted memories. The strobe light effects of the lightening gave tantalizing glimpses of the foreboding House, and Nagini twisted once to glance at the teenager in her grasp before slithering toward the entrance, past a wrought iron fence with metal serpents curling around its poles.

She reached a cleverly concealed door to the left of the front entrance, hidden by tall, outward spreading trees. They bent low and whistled as the wind rushed through them, audible even over the cracks of thunder and lightening and the roars of the rain. It blended into the outside walls of the house with ease, a task made even easier by the overcast, stormy darkness of the night. Nagini rose up a few feet to hiss the password at the heavy wooden door, and slipped inside when it opened to admit her and her passenger.

Once the door had shut securely behind her, Nagini gently shifted her grasp on the boy. With one quick glance at Harry, who was still, the serpent made her way clumsily across the dusty halls. She went through dim corridors with wooden wall paneling, stirring up tiny sandstorms of particles that had settled on the upholstery from ages of neglect. Candles in various stages of use sat on mottled candelabras upon the walls, dripping scalding wax onto the rugs and casting shaky orange lighting.

A sudden turn opened into a large sitting room. A fire crackled and the rain was loud on the roof. A lone armchair sat at an angle facing the fire, its occupant staring meditatively into the flames. His outline was black and the light behind him showed his sharp, angular features and his white, noseless face.

"Master," Nagini hissed in greeting.

The figure did not appear to be startled at all by her presence. He sat relaxed but straight-backed in the armchair. His elbow was on the armrest, and his head rested on his fist. His robes were black. Not the dull, drab black of his follower's robes, but a hue darker than pitch, making him seem one with shadows and terrifying even in serenity.

"Nagini," He hissed in response, eyes still locked on the fire. It lapped desperately at the air, orange tongues licking out and daringly trying to light the hearthrug aflame. _'How very… _Gryffindor

"You have brought someone with you." It was not a question. It was a statement. The man's voice was cold and level even in Parseltongue. "Someone with incredibly high levels of dangerously unstable power. Someone who has thwarted me much longer than I can permit. Someone who angers me greatly. His magic is familiar. Nagini, my pet… why have you brought my greatest enemy to my very threshold?"

The snake's thin eyes widened.

"Harry Potter…" She hissed, realization striking her.

Voldemort stood and suddenly he was in front of her, glaring down at the giant serpent. His eyes almost mirrored hers in shape, but the unnatural red pierced more cuttingly than any knife. He towered over her despite her size and he advanced, wand held high between brittle white fingers.

"Nagini…" He said dangerously, beginning with false sweetness and raising his voice to a roar that would lead a grown man to tears. "Why, _why_ have you brought _Harry Potter_ to the abode of the Dark Lord!"

"I… I was unsure of his identity," Nagini explained cautiously. Her tongue whipped in and out as she spoke. "There was something about the boy that reminded me of you, my master."

Voldemort stepped backward, his face hidden in shadows now. He let out a hum of thought and fingered the smooth wooden grooves of his wand. Then, with a wave of the wand, muttered a spell. A loud crack echoed and a puff of cerulean smoke clogged the room, distinguishing the desperate fire that had been warming the room. A damp chill settled slowly, and as the sluggish fog cleared, a fifteen, soon to be sixteen, year old boy lay unconscious in the middle of the floor.

Voldemort leaned forward, inspecting his enemy with interest.

Harry Potter was waterlogged, soaked to the bone. His hand-me-down, oversized clothing hung off his frame, the soggy material sinking into the indents that were his ribs, showing his lack of sustenance. His jetblack locks were plastered to his face, and his skin was white enough to rival even Voldemort's. He was shivering, twitching, arms wrapped around his stomach as though in pain. He was breathing heavily, exhaling golden mists.

"This is the boy to save the world?" He snarled icily, taking in Harry's appearance. With much self-control, he prohibited himself from killing the boy off right then and there. Besides, it would have been… unsporting. "And I thought he was pitiful at the Ministry of Magic…"

Voldemort reached forward and ran his finger across Harry's forehead.

The teenager gave a startled cry, and outside in the roaring storm the downpour picked up, wind howled along with him and the lightening flashed golden, striking a tree in the front yard of Riddle House and leaving it nothing but a shriveled, smoking trunk. A sudden wave of magic rolled off of Harry, causing Voldemort to stumble backward in surprise.

"He is powerful, Master," Nagini said quietly from where she was watching near the doorway. "I know that you can sense his potential, as I can… He is obviously ill, and in such a condition, he may be easy to use… to your advantage."

"My pet," Voldemort said in his intimidating, high voice. "Are you suggesting that I take advantage of a mere child, a poor orphan, and use him to manipulate and overpower his own peers, his own family, his own _side_?"

"Only if you wish it," said the serpent.

"Nagini, my dear…" said Voldemort with an evil satisfaction. "Great minds really do think alike." He cast his scarlet eyes to Harry. "The irony… to be saved by your greatest foe."

---------------

**Author's Note:** Oh god. I hope the next chapter wait isn't as long. Please review and forgive my extreme lateness! Voldemort was hard to write for me… I hope I got him right… Also, I was desperate to get this up, so please forgive any minor errors, I'll go back and fix them soon.

I'm sure most of you have noticed the more prominent developmental power Harry's receiving: If you haven't just note the weather changes.

_**Please Review!**_


	6. Going Nowhere Fast

**Review Responses:**

**Angel the Devil's Daughter, Drusilla, klare, and SSC:** Thanks for reviewing with such compliments:-)

**E.A.V:** The whole "Dursley Capture" is just that – seemingly superfluous. Don't worry, it's important. Also, Mad-Eye simply didn't have any more Veritaserum. It wore off.

**T-chan:** Whew, I'm so glad that you (and other reviewers) thought that my Nagini and Lord Voldemort were well written. I was struggling there, and it's not my best. Harry will be okay… eventually. Heh heh heh.

**B.B.T.W:** Thanks so much, because as I said in T-chan's response, he and Nagini weren't easy for me to convey! Have you really been checking every day? Wow! I'm glad you enjoy it so much:-)

**Molly Morrison:** Oh yes, I thought it rather fitting that Harry controlled lightening and storms too. :-) Of course Harry will get free! I can't let him kill off everyone… but I'm not saying that no one will die. Thanks for the review!

**Magic Monk of Monkey:** Thank you! Your review made me actually get up and write…. **sweatdrop**

**Author's Note:** And to think that in the last chapter I was so ashamed of my lateness! Good lord, what's this, a month or more? I'm sorry, real life got in the way.Well, I hope none of you have stopped reading… Cause here's number 6….

Petroselinum

**Chapter Six: Going Nowhere Fast**

_We would not be interested in human beings if we did not have the hope of someday meeting someone worse off than ourselves. – E. M. Coiran_

Severus Snape was angry. And not just angry, _very_ angry. Furious, even.

The reason?

That damn Potter boy.

His disappearing act was affecting an amazing amount of people. It was sidetracking Order business and changing the carefully laid plans that had taken days, weeks, months of straining and collecting information and strategizing for the future. It was totally upsetting the many lines of possible occurrence that the Light side had reasoned and prepared for. Stupid Potter.

But Snape supposed Potter's disappearance was good for at least one thing, and that was pulling Snape back into Voldemort's inner circle. Snape had been called to see the Dark Lord just moments after he had spoken with Lupin. After delivering the news and taking a few Crucios, Voldemort had seemed appeased, and Snape had been both relieved and horrified to find that he was once again one of the Dark Lord's most trusted.

But he was still angry with Gryffindor's "Golden Child".

Not to mention the fact that everyone he'd spoken to within the past forty-eight hours was a bloody oozing, distraught Potter fan.

Snape grimaced at the thought as he used a damp rag to wipe the extra poisonous black chill-beetle innards from the silver blade of his knife and shoved aside the exoskeletons, silently scolded himself for letting his thoughts wander. He sprinkled the chopped chill-beetle stomachs and heads sparingly into the cauldron.

He was in the middle of brewing a very important potion at the request of the Dark Lord, one that called for his complete attention. The task at hand was one that required precise and careful measurements, and specified cutlery and materials, else the entire potion go to waste. The small silver cauldron was bubbling over medium heat, and was emitting a thin purple-blue smoke. Snape soon found himself falling into the familiar rhythm of a Potion Master at his trade. An eighth of a teaspoon ground Basilisk fang came next, followed by a full teaspoon of liquefied moonbeam. Since they were some of the rarest potions ingredients in existence, Snape considered himself extremely lucky to have at least small amounts of both, the former of which he'd received directly from Lord Voldemort. He had not dared question its whereabouts, and he would never stoop to ask the Boy-Who-Lived to open the Chamber of Secrets so that he could replenish his stash. Not that Dumbledore would allow the brat, anyhow.

The liquefied moonbeam was perhaps the rarest ingredient ever used in potion-making. To liquefy a moonbeam – a ray of light – well, it was to say the least impossible. If not for magic.

The process itself was unknown to all but a few. The only known written instruction of the ceremony was held in one of the ancient potions books Snape had locked away in a special room just for manuals with such prized information, courtesy of Albus Dumbledore. It required a detailed knowledge of the moon and its phases, precise mathematical calculations, skilled and powerful wizards (with good intentions), and the participation of magical creatures (including a few mythological ones), plus more than a bit of luck. This and more, and it still took years to obtain sufficient stores, owing to the fact that the few potions that required liquiefied moonbeam asked for more than four drops. The single half-teaspoon of moonbeam had taken just under a decade to produce, and now, Snape realized bitterly, it was going toward Dark purposes.

Snape prodded the flames with his wand and the fire lowered, burning with little flicks of heat. Satisfied, he poured the liquefied moonbeam into an eyedropper, gently letting beads of the milky white fluid fall into the cauldron at ten-second intervals. The potion rolled to a low simmer, and slowly shifted from a bruised purple hue to a metallic gray. Snape picked up yet another silver instrument, this time a shallow spoon with a long handle, and stirred the substance counterclockwise, muttering under his breath. The smoke had died down and now an almost chilly mist was rising from the surface.

Suddenly, there was a small trill reminiscent of a Phoenix song in his ear. He almost dropped the spoon in surprise, so immersed had he been in his work, but he switched the spoon to his left hand and touched his right index finger twice just behind his ear. Three taps could have initiated the visual communications screen, a shimmering magic square with a visual of the caller (something a bit like a faded wizarding portrait), but he needed to watch his potion and didn't want anything obscuring his view. Snape muttered a sharp, "What?"

"_Wotcher! Who's this?"_ Came a voice, slightly echoed but audible nonetheless.

"Someone in the middle of brewing a very complex potion for a very unforgiving dark lord." He snapped, still stirring. "Severus Snape. Who the hell else?"

"_Snape?" _The voice practically wailed. _"Damn, I was hoping Kingsley would pick up!"_

"For Merlin's sake, who is this!"

"_Oh."_ The voice paused. _"Sorry. Nymphadora Tonks, with a message about Harry Potter."_

Snape scowled. Nymphadora Tonks, another irritatingly upbeat Potter enthusiast. Her bubbly clumsiness combined with her horribly Gryffindorish manner and the very notion that she was related to Black made her even more detestable.

"Why," He began venomously while simultaneously raising the heat of the fire. "Are you wasting the_ open line_ with trivial nonsense that in all probability is nothing but worthless sentiments?"

He could practically hear the girl wince. He smirked to himself. It was like teaching her all over again. The line crackled again and he heard Tonks talking, sounding a bit sheepish.

"_I, um, sort of forgot that how to work the individual line spell –"_ Here Snape snorted, somehow unsurprised. Tonks spoke rather quickly, _"But no, you see, Remus, Mad-Eye and me just interrogated the Dursleys and –"_

Snape's brow furrowed a bit as he held up a gossamer sheet of meshed miniature Night Pixie wings to the light, inspecting for any imperfections. He set the whole sheet carefully on top of the boiling silver potion and watched it dissolve completely.

"The Dursleys?" He interrupted. "Potter's Muggle relatives?"

"_Yes,"_ She responded, a pinch of irritation in her voice. _"And Remus and I think we know where to begin a search for Harry."_

"That's just wonderful." Snape said dryly. He was stirring again, this time in a pattern of twice clockwise, once counterclockwise. "Now go bother someone else."

"_Merlin!"_ Tonks exclaimed, half disbelief, half anger. _"You don't even give a damn if he's alive or not! He could be taken by _You-Know-Who_!"_

"Excuse me," Snape spat. "For having other priorities than searching for some runaway brat who always gets himself into trouble at other people's expense!"

Tonks made an aggravated noise, losing her temper.

"_He _didn't _run away, he got dumped in some field somewhere, I guess at least near Surrey, by his horrible uncle! We need help searching, but I can see_ you're _going to be of no use. Hang up and I'm going to call the line again and get someone useful."_

Snape opened his mouth to send a rather nasty retort to his former pupil, but there was another small Phoenix trill and the line was cut. He let out a low growl of irritation but pushed it aside as best he could. As far as he knew, which was very far, Potter wasn't anywhere near the Dark Lord. Voldemort had said almost nothing of Potter when Snape had delivered the news of Potter's absence from his muggle home, but he had seemed at least a tad interested…

Snape scowled again and turned back to the potion. It was rolling thickly in the cauldron, looking like mercury, and the mist was almost glassy, refracting light with a foggy white gleam. He extinguished the flames, and picked up a slender ladle. He scooped a ladleful of the thick silver liquid, inspected it closely, and then let it fall back into the cauldron, watching as it slid gracefully under the surface.

Snape stepped away from the pit where he'd been brewing, and stood before the long stone counter directly behind him. Scattered across the surface were spare pieces of parchment, volumes of Potions information, and pages upon pages of yellowed parchment with notes and observations written in tight script. Snape reached for a blank piece of parchment, and dipped his eagle feather quill into a nearby inkwell. His hand hovered over the paper, and a drop of glistening ink fell onto the jotter, spreading out and sinking into the grain of the material. He bit his lip once in an oddly pensive look, and wrote,

**July 23 – 9:00 PM – _Inte Rimolupus_ brew complete. Cooling time aprox five hours.**

**Administration yet unattempted. Effectiveness of brew assured in theory but with aprox 2 - 5 possibility of failure if tested upon subject with mild to acute silver tolerance. **

**Effects of _Inte Rimolupus_ brew after administration to subject expected to be similar to Crutiatus, though less painful in intensity; internal bleeding; blistering and irritation of epidermis; metamorphose to and from lupine form. Other effects to be documented at time of administration. **

**Probable time of necrosis after administration: 24-48 hours. May vary due to amount of _Inte Rimolupus_ brew ingested. **

**In untested theory brew will cause no harm past temporary nausea to all but werewolves.**

---------------

Nymphadora Tonks snorted in a rather unladylike way, and jammed her finger with a bit too much force (she winced and had to rub the spot where she'd poked) twice behind her right ear, muttering the spell to cut the Order Communications line. She was standing still in a corner of the room, deciding against pacing due to her clumsy nature, and fuming with anger at the Potions Professor. How dare he! After all Harry went through…

She glanced around the room. The whitewashed walls were almost painfully bright, and the absence of furnishings gave the place an even colder look than before. Tonks had tried to get Remus to spell it some glaringly vibrant color, maybe neon orange to match her hair, but he'd smiled and shook his head no. Stupid man. Never knew how to have any fun. Tonks' eyes swept the room and rested on the single table in the middle where Remus had interrogated Vernon Dursley. Remus was sitting there, in one of the three metal folding chairs that had been pulled up to the table, and he had his head in his hands.

Tonks frowned, straightened her shirt (a pink and black striped number with glittery white letters that read, "Simply Charming"), and clunked over to the table, plopping down in the seat beside Remus and scooting her chair closer so that she could put her arm around his shoulders.

"Wotcher, Remus. Cheers, we'll find Harry."

Remus lifted his head and scrubbed his graying five o'clock shadow with one hand, offering her a weak smile, "Thank you, Nymphadora."

Tonks smiled but scoffed at his use of her first name.

"Remus! I told you not to call me Nymphadora! Call me Tonks like everyone else!"

"Yes, yes, I'll remember that, Nymphadora," He said distractedly. He gently removed her arm from around his shoulders and stood. "Did you get through to Kingsley?"

"No," Tonks responded with a frown. "I got Snape. Prat wouldn't help me at all."

Remus eyed her wearily. "Why didn't you just use the individual line spell?" At her blush he gave a knowing half-smile and said, "Just wave your wand like this, yes, with a bit of a wrist-flick, and say, _'arcesso Phoenix norma amicus_ Kingsley Shacklebolt_.'_"

Tonks got out her wand and waved and flicked clumsily, saying, _"Arcesso norma amicus_ Kingsley Shacklebolt"

There was a Phoenix trill, and a pause, and then the deep voice of the Auror came over the line.

"_Hello?"_

"Kingsley!" Tonks exclaimed, waving a little thanks to Remus as he walked away into the next room where Mad-Eye was interrogating the remaining Dursleys. She tapped behind her right ear three times and Kingsley's face appeared in front of her. "I've got some news…"

---------------

Harry Potter didn't know where he was. He couldn't see anything or hear anything. Not a bloody thing. Maybe there was nothing to see or hear.

But he could _feel _everything.

He felt as though he'd been run over by a particularly fast-moving truck. Maybe a truck filled with Dudley clones, each as fat as the original. He ached all over and his mouth was painfully dry. The floor beneath him was hard and cold, icy through his threadbare clothes. His toes were numb through the torn soles of his trainers, and he instinctively curled up so as to maintain warmth, only to wince as his body protested. He let out a loud groan, followed by a sneeze. Merlin, if he had a cold…

The noise seemed to alert another presence in the room of his awakening. There was a small noise and then the wood slatted floor quiverd a bit with movement. Harry stiffened and frantically pulled himself up, propping his upper body back on his arms.

"Be not afraid, child," Hissed a surprisingly soft female voice. It was familiar to Harry, though how, he didn't know. "I'm here only to help you… Harry…."

"Who –" Harry's throat jammed and he swallowed twice, licking his dry lips. He looked around wildly, but the world was still black. "Who are you?"

There was a small vibration through the floor as the owner of the voice came closer. Something long and smooth ran behind Harry and overhis fingertips and his stomach gave a horrible jolt. He had a sneaking, scared suspicion as to what it was.

Now little heated spurts of air were brushing his face and something wet touched his cheek for just a second. There was a hiss.

"I," Said the voice. "Am the one who saved you from the storm." Harry felt something pulling itself over and around his shoulders like a living scarf. "I am Nagini."

Harry jerked away from the giant snake, scooting blindly backwards on the floor. His back hit the wall and he let out a cry of pain. The snake slid toward him.

"Really," Nagini simpered, sounding to Harry revoltingly like Pansy Parkinson. "I would have thought you'd be greatful for my services."

Harry grimaced and pressed his back against the wall, frustrated at the darkness all around him. Something was wrong with his eyes. He didn't bother fumbling in his pockets for his wand – it was somewhere, somewhere back at Privet Drive. The main thing that was bothering him was not the serpent in front of him, but what the serpent represented –

Voldemort.

"Nagini," Said a new voice with cold humor. "Do stop antagonizing the child. It's common knowledge that that's _my_ job…"

Harry's blood turned to ice just as his scar lit on fire. He knew that voice. That was –

"Voldemort," Voldemort sighed almost whimsically. His voice was high up, and he was obviously standing above Harry, somewhere to his right. "Sometimes I wish people would actually _say _my name instead of using You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Those are all well and good, but Voldemort… It's such a very unique, _interesting _name…" Suddenly Harry's scar burned fiercer and the voice was right in Harry's ear,

"Isn't that right,_ Potter?_"

Harry gasped at the pain and tried move away from Voldemort, but the Dark Lord was too close, and it was too late, and Harry still couldn't see.

"Get – away," Harry hissed through gritted teeth.

"What's this?" Voldemort whispered, right next to Harry. "Speaking in Parseltongue, Potter?"

Harry didn't answer.

"That's right, I'd almost forgotten," Voldemort said silkily, his voice starting dangerously soft and growing quickly louder, until he practically shouted the last word, causing Harry's ears to ring. _"The great Harry Potter is a coward!"_

Voldemort stood a mere yard away from Harry. The boy sat rigidly against the wall of the room. He seemed to have awoken much too soon for Voldemort's liking. Harry could feel Voldemort's eyes on him, could sense him staring, but couldn't hold back his physical reaction to the slur. Voldemort was carefully watching Harry's face as his eyebrows narrowed even more and his jaw tensed. His bony hands were clenched into fists, nails biting his palms and his knuckles white. Harry himself couldn't see it, but his fists were glowing again, brilliantly gold.

Voldemort remained silent, so much so that Harry was almost convinced he'd left, but the pain in his scar told him otherwise. And then, there it was, his voice, his hated voice, piercing the darkness that held Harry captive.

"Potter." Voldemort's voice seemed persuasive, almost. "It's been quite a while since I had this discussion with you…."

Harry tensed.

"And I know we've been on opposite sides, if you will, –"

Nagini made a strange snake noise that sounded oddly like a laugh.

"But we're very much alike, Harry," His use of Harry's first name made Harry cringe. "And you're becoming very powerful… you and I, we could help each other, we could get revenge. Revenge on Dumbledore, wouldn't you like that?"

Something in the back of Harry's mind flickered. Yes. Yes, he would like that. He shook himself mentally. _'Don't be stupid, Harry!'_

"Revenge on Dumbledore, payback for everyone who's hurt you, Harry!" Voldemort continued, his words promising. "We can overtake the Wizarding world easily if we work together – "

"No!" Harry exclaimed vehemently. His unseeing eyes snapped open, iris, pupil, and sclera all glowing gold. "I'd never side with you!"

"Pity," Voldemort said coldly. "You would have made an _excellent_ force of evil, Potter."

"Let me go! I told you, I'll never side with you or any of your goddamn followers!"

"I'm afraid that's too bad, Potter." Voldemort said. His threatening voice was above Harry now. He was standing. Harry heard the rustling of fabric that told of a wand being drawn from Voldemort's robes. "Because you have absolutely no choice in the matter."

Before Harry could speak he was hit with a violent spell and was knocked unconscious.

"Nagini," Voldemort called.

"Yes, Master?" The serpent responded.

"Prepare for the meeting. I'll need to call my Death Eaters. Everything must be ready… our first attack will be Hogsmeade."

Outside, the lightening dimmed, and the rain gave in to the wind that swept it limply, weakly, westward.

---------------

**Author's Note:** Again, sorry for the delay, and this chapter wasn't as satisfying as the others... Though I am rather pleased with the Snape section. Voldemort seems strange to me, like he's high or something. But he's just captured his greatest enemy and things are going good for him, I guess he deserves to be happy. lol

**Things will begin to pick up speed in the next chapter!**

The Order of the Phoenix individual call line spell: _Arcesso _(to call for) _Phoenix norma_ (phoenix organization) _amicus_ (special comrade) and then the Order member's name. Tonks didn't use that last part when she had called Snape.

The _Inte Rimolupus_ brew is actually two Latin words I just mixed together: Interimo means "to slay" and lupus means "wolf". The potion is to kill a werewolf.

**Next Chapter: We see Mad-Eye interrogate the Dursleys and Voldemort holds a Death Eater meeting…**

**Please review! **


	7. The Weapon

**Review Responses:**

**Rawaiya Prabhakar, bamer**, and** RYUDO:** Thanks so much for your reviews! Encouragement is great.

**Lady Apolla:** Thanks so much! I'll definitely consider your ideas. ;-) Loved your review. So enthusiastic! XD

**Garnet Runestar:** No, this is not a dead fic, but its come pretty close to it, hasn't it? My apologies. Thanks very much for the compliments.

**Acciodanrad9:** Your compliments made me glow. Harry's illness? Well, basically…. Something very good comes out of it. Harry would probably say it's not worth all the pain but the Wizarding World would say otherwise, I'm sure. **wink wink**

**B.B.T.W.: **ACK! I reread your review and felt horrible because I had this vision of you checking your mail every day for like two months! Sorry!

**Jayde Green:** The throes of fic-love? I feel so honored… and giggly! **Giggles **

**Misao Demon Master:** Voldemort on crack… lol bet you could seriously write something off that though. Oo Anyway, Latin words I found on a Latin dictionary website. Very easy to find, just use Google or Yahoo! or something.

**Author's Note: backs away from angry readers** Uhh… will the old "real life" excuse work this time? **Sweatdrop **I'm really sorry you guys. Any time I sat down to write I had to do other things or had to get off or… you don't want the whole sad story. But here's this chapter and I promise it's longish, and hopefully good. **crosses fingers**

Petroselinum

**Chapter Seven: The Weapon**

_Weapons are an important factor in war, but not the decisive factor; it is people, not things, that are decisive. – Mao Zedong_

Hermione Granger was sitting Indian style on Ron Weasley's bed, a wall of books encircling her and covering most of his Chudley Cannons bedspread. A book was open in her lap. Her eyes scanned each line quickly, absorbing every word, analyzing every meaning. In a past visit to the Burrow, Hermione had jokingly commented that whenever she read in Ron's room she felt like she should be reading James and the Giant Peach, because the color made her feel like she was stuck in a great citrus. Harry had gotten the joke and laughed. Ron had been confused, but when Harry had carried the joke a bit farther and added that the room made him think of a sick rabbit's throw-up, Ron had been intensely offended and had stomped off to sulk while Harry and Hermione held each other up, laughing uncontrollably. The memory was humorous and brought a small smile to Hermione's lips. The glaring orange would normally have distracted the bookworm while she was pouring over her volumes, but for some reason she felt that Ron needed company. Silent company, friendly silence.

The owner of the Chudley Cannons bedspread and rabbit throw-up color pallet was sitting on his window sill, staring moodily out into the rainy sky with his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms folded and latent on his knees. Slowly he put his head down and rested it on his arms, still staring out into the sky.

Hermione snapped her book shut with a loud crack. Ron looked up from his gazing and frowned.

"You can't just stare and wait for an owl all day, Ron," Hermione cried exasperatedly. "Hedwig probably can't travel in this kind of weather and it's been going strong for days! Harry will write. You're making me nervous."

"Nervous?" Ron laughed incredulously. "How am I making you nervous?"

"Oh… you know!" Hermione said exasperatedly, pulling a hand through her bushy hair and tugging at a few knotted curls. "Just… it's making me all antsy!"

Ron gave her a look that clearly said he thought she was nuts, but said, "Well, I guess I'll stop then…"

Hermione scowled, and Ron noticed.

"What do you want me to say?" He asked testily.

"Well, I don't know," Hermione said, just as testily.

"That's a first," Ron retorted with biting sarcasm.

Hermione's face fell and Ron realized he had hurt her feelings. His tone softened. "It's just weird. I feel like something bad's going to happen.

Hermione uncrossed her legs and scooted off the bed, knocking off a few books in the process. She made her way to Ron and hugged him tight. He winced a bit and she pulled away, concern etched across her features.

"Ronald!" Mrs. Weasley yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "Ron, it's time to change those bandages!"

Hermione held her hand out to Ron and helped him up off the window seat, and the two made their way down the rickety old steps. Standing at the bottom of the stairwell was Ron's mother and a small man of whom Hermione knew not the name. Mrs. Weasley sat Ron down on the kitchen table, and Ron peeled off his shirt. There were bandages covering Ron's torso and a few on his arms, and the teen held back a wince as Mrs. Weasley pressed her fingers down on a bruise. She made a _tsk tsk_ noise reminiscent of Madam Pomfrey and turned to help the man prepare some sort of creamy healing salve.

The brains had had more of an effect on Ron than had originally been thought. He was permanently scarred, said Poppy Pomfrey and Healer Edmund Ashby, but would generally suffer no other lasting damage. Edmund Ashby was practiced Healer and longtime friend of the Arthur Weasley. It was by his own choice that he had come to the Burrow to bestow free treatment of all Ron's ailments in repayment for Arthur's many years of loyal friendship to him through a difficult period in his life.

Ashby was a Scottish man and the first impression one had upon looking at him was that he was round, in every sense of the word. He was short and gave the impression of being rather circular. He had a very round body and a very round head, and his nose was a round little dot on his face. His eyes were round and very blue, and his sandy hair was short but still long enough to show the beginning of what promised to be round curls. He had round ruddy splotches of color on his cheeks and kind disposition. He was… round. Geometric in the softest sort of way.

Ashby peeled off Ron's bandages layer by layer until Ron's chest was bare. There were purple marks that looked like the kind that would come from contact with octopus tentacles scattered across his torso. Most of the bruises had disappeared by now, and scars had already begun appearing. With a gentle hand, Ashby took some of the salve handed to him by Molly Weasley and rubbed it onto the purple spots before replacing the bandages. Hermione grasped Ron's hand and interlocked her fingers with his in encouragement and he smiled at her.

"Well!" Ashby said at last. "Good news for you, sonny. In a few days you'll be done with this and there'll be no need for physical healing."

"Yes!" Ron pumped the air with his fist and Hermione stifled a fond laugh.

"But," Ashby said, and Molly, Hermione, and Ron paused. "We still don't know exactly how long you were in contact with the brains… there could be some mental and psychological damage that remains undiscovered as of yet. It might manifest itself without anyone knowing, so tests will have to be taken to make sure that you are still the same as before."

Molly and Hermione let out simultaneous gasps, and Ron stared.

"Are you saying I'm going nutters?" He asked incredulously, looking alarmed.

Ashby chuckled softly. It was a round sound.

"No, of course not. I mean, there's a slight possibility, but the chances are so slim that –" He stopped short as he saw the stricken looks on the female's faces. "I'm just joking, of course." He said hurriedly.

Relief filled their expressions and Ashby was satisfied.

Ron gently squeezed Hermione's hand untangled his fingers from hers. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on, mussing his flaming hair as he did so. He slid off the table and stretched.

"No worries, mates." He said confidently, puffing out his chest and looking very Gryffindor. "I'll never go crazy."

He rumpled his hair with his hands and grinned at Hermione, but for a moment something in his eyes stirred. They glinted and shone for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitched, but then it was gone, and the same Ron Weasley that Hermione Granger had known since she was eleven years old was beaming at her. She forced a weak smile onto her face, suddenly uncomfortable in his presence.

* * *

It was the fourth day and the storm had not stopped. The rain still beat the ground in rage with her liquid fists, and the wind howled in competition with the thunder, who bellowed with his limitless lungs. The world was soggy now, the floodwaters having soaked into every underground crack. Lighting danced threateningly across the sky, beautiful and dangerous, secretive and quick, so that for miles around a golden flash would hesitate for only a second before vanishing, gone before it was even there. 

A group of figures indistinguishable in the rainy darkness slopped through the terrain, making their way through the sodden woods. The man at the front pushed away the thin brush in front of him, breaking the brittle branches and clearing the path for his fellows as he did so. They walked on, the mud clinging desperately to their legs so that each step was accompanied with a disgusting suction noise that, fortunately, could not be heard over the din. There was very little talking aside from a muttered oath or a snide comment, and they continued in this vein until suddenly stopping at an abrupt clearing. There was almost two inches of water over the ground, and the dirt and constant showers stirred the water into a murky slop. They stood silent in the center of the clearing,drenched through in their black cloaks and robes coated with slimy mud, waiting for something.

A beat of silence, and,

"Why are we standing here in the rain?"

"Shut up, O'Connell," Came the biting voice of Severus Snape. The new recruit shrunk back a little at being addressed so harshly by a senior Death Eater. Snape pulled up the soaked sleeve of his robe and looked at his watch – less than a minute to go. "We're waiting for the portkey initialization."

"Yeah, be quiet, O'Connell!" Chimed in Wormtail importantly. He stood hunched over beside Snape, making him seem even more pathetic and short than ever. With his matted strands of hair (for he was balding), squinty eyes, and pointed nose he looked rather like a drowned rat. The only thing imposing about the shabby man was his silver hand, which glinted menacingly in the flashing storm-light.

Snape's upper lip curled and he raised his right hand.

"I would strike you, Wormtail, but I'm quite allergic to filth, and it seems that you are practically the definition."

O'Connell snickered.

A thin figure pushed its way through the crowd and stood next to Snape with its hands on its hips.

"Since when do _you _lead us, Sevvy?" Simpered Bellatrix Lestrange. Her long black hair was wet and limp and a large lock hung directly down the middle of her face, creating a line of black that covered her nose and split her heavy-lidded eyes away from each other. It was as though with the help of her dripping hair one could diverge which Bellatrix was which and see the two sides of her; on the left side of her face her mouth turned upwards, and her eye seemed alight with curiosity and mirth, and on the right her lips fell downward, and her eye gleamed with a sadistic sort of sadness and pleasure all at once. Her violet eyeshadow and mascara was smeared into a dark scar across her cheek, and her vibrant red lipstick was smudge around her mouth, making her look as though she'd drunk a glass of blood. _That,_ Snape thought, _wouldn't be too out of character anyway._

"Since this group of fools ran out of competent leaders," Snape replied acidly, and Bellatrix glared.

Snape reached into his cloak, and pulled from his pocket a length of braided rope. He impatiently beckoned with his hand to his fellows and each of them, about a dozen or so, grabbed on to a section of the rope. Bellatrix bumped Snape playfully with her hip to get him to move over, and he stifled a look of disgust before stepping as far away from the former Black as was possible while still holding the portkey. Unfortunately for Snape (and Wormtail too, for that matter), this happened to be directly next to Wormtail. Snape watched the second hand tick slowly, one hand gripping the rope, and counted out the last seconds.

"Five – Four – Three – Two –"

He was cut off as he was jerked off the ground and pulled forward by his navel. He was vaguely aware of his companions speeding along beside him, and then he was thrown onto a cold floor. Momentarily disoriented, he shook his head and stood quickly, wand in hand. His robes were sticking to him unpleasantly; he scowled at them and waved his wand over his body in a quick-drying charm.

The room they had found themselves in was an extremely large room with no doors or exits. It did have several long, sideways windows rectangular in shape at the very top of the room (too far to efficiently escape out of) that gave a clear view of the turmoil that was the night sky. The room looked like it had only recently been paid any attention. The room, which was so large it was more like a hall, or a chamber, wasn't very well ventilated and currently chilly. Drip marks were spreading slowly from corners of the tall ceiling and down the gray walls from roof leaks, and in the darkness they were rusty and brown, like tainted blood seeping into the very woodwork of the house. The flat stone floors were chipped and worn in places, and gleaming in others. They held scratch marks where things had been pulled across the floor and light patches where other things had previously laid. There was a gritty texture in the air that gave even more evidence to recent, perhaps even current, habitation. Lightening flashed outside and Snape could see thousands of dust particles floating in the air.

There was something else, too. Snape couldn't place it, but there was something was different from the normal atmosphere of Voldemort's various lairs. It was a feeling that seemed incredible familiar to Snape, as though he'd known it for a long time, and at the same time foreign. It was like seeing a long-forgotten face from the past and remembering the person but forgetting the name.

The other Death Eaters were in the process of picking themselves up off the ground and drying themselves. Or, in the case of those less bright than others, wringing out their robes with their hands and splattering water all over the Dark Lord's floors. Snape glanced at Crabbe and Goyle with a look of disbelief, followed by derision, and the two dropped their handfuls of fabric and shrugged at each other. Snape scowled again.

"Nice to see you're on your guard, my servants..."

Snape spun around so fast he was sure to have whiplash, and saw that a throne had emerged from seemingly nowhere. It was tall and set upon platform that was led to by long, imposing stairs and took up the entire far wall. The back of it extended to the ceiling, and Voldemort's fingers were strumming the ornate armrest of the chair, staring down at his minions. Snape immediately fell to his knees.

"Master!" He heard Bellatrix exclaim. She stood from where she had been squatting on the floor and began to sprint toward Voldemort. In a second his wand was out and "Crucio!" rang through the hall.

Bellatrix's screams were piercing and she writhed on the ground in pain until finally the curse was lifted, and she lay on her stomach gasping for breath.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort hissed. "You do not move unless I wish it. But now, you may come to me, for you have learned your lesson."

"Y – y – yes! Yes, Master!" Bellatrix choked, crawling on her hands and knees toward him. She fell once, but picked herself up, sliding helplessly across the floor, and eyes wide and sobbing, she reached the foot of the four tiers before his throne. Still gasping for breath she reached up and ran her fingers over his hand, and when that went without punishment she shoved herself up off of the floor and knelt beside Voldemort's throne, cradling his hand in hers and sobbing her love for him.

Snape was sickened.

"The reason for our meeting," Voldemort said, waving the still-hysterical Bellatrix off of his hand. "Is that I have decided that we have waited long enough."

There was a murmur through the robed crowd before him, but as none truly knew what he was talking about, it was neither a murmur of agreement or argument; it was merely a murmur.

"We will attack as soon as we can gather the necessary forces," Voldemort hissed. His red eyes swept the room. "And this attack will be successful."

There was something in how he said it that made it clear to all present what he meant. Be defeated, and pay dearly.

"But some of you may be questioning, 'How can my lord do this when our ranks have not become nearly what they were in the beginning?'"

There was some murmur of agreement and Snape cursed the fools who chose to respond. He knew Voldemort could turn this question on them, use it as an excuse to torture ignorant newcomers. But it seemed that Voldemort was eager to share his secret, and refrained from Cruciatus – so far.

"Snape!" Voldemort called out suddenly. Snape stiffened and stepped forward.

"Yes, Master?" He asked subserviently, his head bowed.

"Is the potion complete?"

"Yes, my lord, it is. I can bring it to you whenever you ask." Snape answered.

"Good, good…" Voldemort said slowly. "But do to recent circumstances; it may not be needed after all." He opened his mouth to speak the word –

"Wait! My Lord!" Bellatrix cried suddenly. "Let me do your work! Allow me to be your hand and let me show you my worth with the strength of my punishments!"

Voldemort considered Bellatrix for a moment, and inclined his head.

"Let this be worth my while, Bella." He said warningly.

Lestrange raised her wand in joy and Snape tensed, his muscles preparing for the onslaught of pain that he knew would come. He was hit with the curse and could not help but scream, still unaccustomed to the wrenching of his nerves and he jerked and thrashed on the floor, lost in pain just as Bellatrix had been notfive minutes before; but suddenly it stopped. Snape stopped, panting andcovered in sweat. He lifted his head up, and stared.

Severus Snape was rarely truly shocked. He prided himself in being unshakable, impassible, and many more adjectives meaning the same. So when Snape looked up and saw Harry Potter standing just a little ways away from the Dark Lord, Bellatrix's wand in hand, glaring defiantly, he thought he'd been hit a little too hard with the Cruciatus.

But there he was.

Snape stared, and it clicked into place. The feeling he had gotten before, the familiar strangeness, however oxymoronic it seemed, was Harry Potter. Harry Potter was here, with the Dark Lord. Nymphadora Tonks' voice flowed unbidden through his mind, _"Merlin! You don't even give a damn if he's alive or not! He could be taken by You-Know-Who!"_

He was jerked from his reverie by a voice that sounded so menacing he could barely believe it was coming from the Boy-Who-Lived. He shivered, than surreptitiously glanced around, hoping that his clansmen would take his shudder as an effect of Crucio. He had only heard Potter speak the same way once before, and it was back in the boy's second year… he had hoped never to hear the horrible sounds again.

"Escruacia men crula shelseeheska shan."

The high windows let in the brilliant flashes of lightening outside, quickening into a strobe light effect and accompanied by loud thunder. The Death Eaters were deathly silent (ironic, concidering the name), staring at Potter.

Voldemort's smirk fell as he looked on the boy.

"Don't tire yourself so, Potter. You and I both know you can barely maintain consciousness, let alone duel with a wizard of my caliber."

Potter glared at the Dark Lord, but now, with closer inspection, Snape could see that he looked far from fit. He was pale as death, with a sheen of sweat across his parchment skin and the purple bags under his eyes showing his exhaustion. His eyes were not the vibrant orbs that Snape was used to meeting in the Potions classroom, but instead were dilated and glazed, and kept losing focus, as though he was on the verge of sleep. His hair was damp and the unkempt mess hung on his forehead, covering his famous scar. He was clearly using all his energy to hold himself upright, and his legs were shaky from the effort though his wand hand was surprisingly steady.

Voldemort turned his gaze from Potter and his gaze rested on his followers. "You may not understand now, but you will all soon come to understand. This is our weapon. This is the weapon. This is our key to victory! This… this is Harry Potter."

Harry dropped his wand and fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer.

"Look how he kneels before his master!" Voldemort crowed, and Bellatrix burst into raucous peals of laughter, followed by the majority of Death Eaters.

"He has grown powerful," Voldemort addressed his followers in a more somber tone. "Very powerful. But with his power has come some sort of ailment which makes him incapable of using this power. I fear that this is only a short stage in his development, however, so we must act quickly. His pain and fever have caused delirium, but the boy has sudden bouts of sanity such as what you have just seen that could unfortunately leave some of my less… capable followers surprised.

"But as I had begun before…" Voldemort continued silkily. "We have been dormant long enough. It is time to strike. We attack Hogsmeade at dawn!"

There was a roaring cheer of excitement from the Death Eaters. Voldemort let out a high-pitched laugh.

"Enough, my servants. This attack will be the first in a line of many. From the defeat of Hogsmeade will come a clear pathway to the fortress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and we shall claim it as our own!"

As Voldemort's voice grew louder with the dramatic conclusion of his speech, the Death Eaters erupted in laudation and laughter, already congratulating themselves on a victory, except for one. He wasn't even a true Death Eater yet, but if he put his heart into the trade he could become great. He was ambitious and clever, and he nervously stepped forward. He was young, very young, and still in school. He reminded Snape so intensely of himself at that age that the Potions Master could not help but cringe. Snape watched, unable to stop him, feeling helpless, his earlier fears confirmed. The boy, for he was young enough to be called boy, kneeled reverently before the Dark Lord.

"My lord," Said the voice of Draco Malfoy, sounding nervous and surprisingly humble. "I trust your wisdom beyond any other's, even my father's –" Snape had to commend the kid; he knew what to say, and said it well. At least so far. "– and I do not wish to question your intentions or your abilities, but I must ask. How is it that you plan to overcome Hogwarts, especially with the fool Albus Dumbledore inside?"

Voldemort's eyes scanned Draco's form, from his bowed head to trembling hands.

"You are Lucius' son, I presume?" Voldemort hissed. His slender fingers fiddled with his wand. Draco noticed.

"Y-yes, my lord, Lucius Malfoy is my father."

"I assume you are aware that he is imprisoned in Azkaban? It is a pity for he was amongst my greatest followers."

"Yes, my lord, I am."

"Your question," Voldemort said. "Is a valid one. And so I will answer it–"

Here Snape breathed an inaudible sigh of relief_. Idiot boy doesn't know what he's getting into, _Snape thought. _If he gets hurt…_ Snape swallowed the thought, his mouth dry. _And Potter, there's another matter. How did he get here? How to get him out of here alive? _

"I have found a way to control Potter, and his power." Voldemort said, somewhat proudly. "Let give a sort of... demonstration."

Voldemort stood abruptly, standing from his regal throne. Harry was doubled over on the ground, hissing things in Parseltongue, and looked up as Voldemort approached, half-straightening with his hand clasped over his scar. SuddenlyVoldemort was behind Harry. Voldemort pulled Harry (who looked horrified)upright, took a deep, steadying breath and held his right index and middle fingers pressed to the boy's scar. The reaction was instantaneous.

Harry threw his head back and let out a scream that echoed in the chamber, and the rain that had been falling relentlessly on the rooftop picked up speed, beating on the roof as if it wished to break in and save the boy. Snape jumped. The thunder bellowed outside, screaming louder than Harry himself, and O'Connell and Goyle let out surprised yelps as the windows they were standing under exploded outward in a tinkling shower of glass. The rain poured inthrough ruptured glass, soaking the Death Eaters for the second time that night, but Voldemort was absorbed in other things. He was staring at Potter with an evil grin plastered over his serpentine face.

Harry was floating a foot off the ground, surrounded in a shimmering golden glow that seemed to extend and light the room. His head was bowed, and his black coiffure was waving in an invisible wind that seemed to be swirling around him. Voldemort prodded his wand in Harry's back and his head snapped up, revealing a pale, expressionless face. The wind whipped his fringe off his forehead, exposing his famous lighteningbolt scar. His eyes were frightening, with no whites or pupils, merely molten gold that churned as though boiling.

Snape's own eyes were wide and he was sure his mouth was open in shock and horror, but he was frozen, rooted to the spot and unable to find the right muscles to close it. Draco was trembling like a leaf, terrified of this unfamiliar Potter and the immense power he possessed, and the rest of Voldemort's men had backed away, pressed with their backs against the walls and shaking, not noticing as they were drenched over and over again by the water pouring in through the windows. Wormtail seemed to have wet himself.

"So, Draco," Voldemort said, a smirk on his face. He stepped out from behind Harry and swept down the steps that led up to the platform his throne and prisoner were on. Standing before the terrified Malfoy, he drew his wand. "Does that answer your question?"

Draco's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"I believe it was an effective demonstration, yes. But you questioned me, Draco. Never question Lord Voldemort. _Crucio!_"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, no Mad-Eye/Dursley interrogations in this chapter… but I just couldn't resist putting in Ron and Hermione. You see, I had this burst of inspiration (that was what got me off my butt to write), but it totally led me away from my original storyline. Bear with me, this one's much better. 

Some notes for those of you who did not pick it up from the text:

_- Harry has been with Voldemort for about three days. _

_- The Parseltongue was nonsense words I just put together. No clever Latin there, folks._

_- If my brain does not come up with an even better plan, Ron will be playing a crucial role._

_- Sick rabbit vomit, you know, they eat a lot of carrots… which are orange… yeah._

**If you have any questions feel free to ask and I will answer! **

**Review for me, your long gone but much deserving **(I hope)** authoress:-D**


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